Breathing Hope
by Blood of Your Lips
Summary: The night of Bella's birthday party, she has a tragic epiphany and decides to tell Edward that she should not be part of his family. However, she leaves a letter for Carlisle, and the two spiral into self-destruction. Warnings for Alcoholism and Language. *Repost * Read Notes at Bottom*


**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything from the _Twilight_ world. All original characters, settings and plots belong to Stephenie Meyer. The song _Breathing Hope (a tribute to Carlisle Cullen)_ was written by and belongs solely to Natalie Nicole Gilbert. Any songs or lyrics mentioned in this story are not for profit, and all belong to their respective owners.

**Warnings: Extreme AU, Alcoholism, Graphic Language and Adult Descriptions in the Future.**

...

**Prologue**

**BPOV**

Epiphanies... Most people saw them as wondrous things, a sudden and glorious insight to the unknown that brings enlightenment, joy, even rapture. Not everyone realized that some epiphanies were not so kind, that some epiphanies were filled with horror and shame, that some epiphanies left only heartbreak and devastation in their wake.

And that was what my epiphany brought to me.

I had never thought much about my feelings toward him. He was, after all, the most beautiful being that I had ever laid eyes on and, as such, I knew that it was only logical that I would find him attractive. His infinite compassion and warmth only added to that attractiveness, and I knew that it was nothing more than a harmless crush, like the crush that I once had on that guy from Hanson. Simple, meaningless.

Until that moment, that dawning moment when I inquired of him if he meant Hell, and those eyes, those inhumanely beautiful eyes abruptly darted from their work on the wounds on my arm to pin me with a powerful stare. I felt my gut clenching almost painfully as I pitifully stammered that he could not be damned and found myself falling into the depths of those golden eyes when he glanced back up with a meaningful look that I could not decipher as the sheer horror of recognition crashed over me.

I immediately schooled my gaze on the buttons of his powder-blue shirt and refused to look elsewhere, lest he figure out the true reason that my heart was racing and blood was filling my cheeks. I did not want him to know. I did not want to see him smile at me sympathetically. I did not want him to brush off my feelings as a simple crush. I did not want to hear him reject me. I did not want him to know that I had realized that I was head-over-heels in love with him, a happily married man.

Never had I felt such disgust, such loathing... and it was all directed at myself. I was ashamed, truly ashamed; and the blackness that began to creep in was not the seemingly trivial embarrassment of tripping and falling flat of my face nor was it the immense humiliation that I had felt when I had been informed by Alice that the family was unaffected by my monthly cycle. No, this was shame, pure shame that could eat away at the soul one tiny grain at a time.

I knew that he knew that something was wrong when I heard him softly calling my name. I simply brushed it off as belated shock; he, of course, thought I was referring the incident only minutes before and I gladly let him.

The relief that I felt at escaping that house was like the pain one felt when a cramped muscled was suddenly released: before the reprieve was an acute sharpness that made you cringe. Luckily for me, Edward seemed to be so preoccupied with what I was sure was worry about my near-attack to take notice of the expressions playing across my face. And truth be told, if he wanted to obsess over this little accident, I was more than happy to play along, because it would be far less cruel to say that I was terrified than to say that I was hopeless in love with his married father.

He avoided me at all costs the days following the unfortunate incident at my party, and I did not even bother to seek him out. There was no point in trying to keep him around me when he was not the one my heart cried out for, and when he finally requested to talk with me, I knew that I had to do it then or I never would.

Whatever it was that he wished to tell me seemed forgotten when I told him that I could no longer be a part of his family, that I now understood fully why he wanted to push me away before. I told him that it was for the best, that I would be joining my mother in Florida and I tried my best to ignore the mix of astonishment and agony on his face when I said my goodbyes and walked out of the forest alone.

As the weekend slowly drifted passed, I realized that while I had let Edward believe that my mind had been changed about his family, that I owed at least one person the truth. He had been such a patient and supportive presence in my life the past year, and he deserved something more than a bad goodbye, he deserved the truth, even if I was too much of a coward to say it to his face.

So I asked Charlie to swing me by the hospital on the way to the airport, and to my surprise, the door to his office opened the moment I approached it and when I was seated, he rested against the edge of his desk. I could feel his patient gaze practically boring into my bowed head as he waited for me to speak, but as I sat before him, my perfectly rehearsed words flew out the window.

I was unable to look him in the eyes just yet. I had to compose myself, keep myself from blurting out the hidden truth that I could not bear to reveal to his face. "I am sure Edward has told you what I have said and about my decision to return to Renee."

"Yes," answered quietly. "Bella, I am truly sorry about Jasper. He-"

I raised a hand to stop him and turned my face up to his, the concern and sadness in those citrine eyes stunning me for a moment. "I do not blame Jasper, Carlisle." At his confused expression, I sighed. "I did not want to tell Edward the real reason that I am leaving; I did not want to tell anyone. That was my original plan, but I realized there is probably no way to avoid that."

Worry etched every line of his perfect face, his pale lips drawn into a thin line of disapproval of how I was handling whatever it was he thought I was dealing with, and I was so thankful in that moment that he did not have a power similar to Jasper's. "Bella, I do not know what is happening, but..."

I shook my head. "It's nothing illegal and you obviously would be able to tell if I was sick. It's my own personal issue, Carlisle, and there is nothing anyone can do to help. It's something that I have to face alone."

I was touched by his look, and the way he whispered my name sadly almost made me change my mind, but it was for the best. If I stayed around his family, he would find out and I would not be able to bear the awkwardness and the problems that it would cause his family.

"I only had Charlie swing me by, because I-" I had to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat- "I couldn't leave you with a bad goodbye. You have done so much for me, Carlisle. You have supported me and have been a wonderful friend, and I wanted you to know that what I said Tuesday is still true: someone as amazing as you could never be damned. Your soul is too beautiful."

His small smile caused my own lips to curl slightly, and as the tears began leaking from the corners of eyes, I knew that I had to hurry and leave before I changed my mind. "The sad thing is that you cannot even see it... Carlisle, who you are exemplifies a miracle to me." He seemed surprised and reached out to pluck my hand from my side, and I let him, whispering, "You breathe hope into everyone you meet, Carlisle, and for the time you have allowed me to know you... It's been an honor."

By now, I could not stop the tears and I gently pulled my hand from his, reaching into my back pocket to pull out an envelope. I held onto it tightly, debating whether or not I should give it to him, and as I studied his lovely face, I knew that I had to. "Carlisle, I want you to promise me that you will not open this for at least an hour." I watched as he hesitated for a moment then simply nodded. "I also want you to promise that when you are finished reading it that you will let it go and that you will not have Alice look out for me, because I have to move on. Please?"

When he gave me his word, I passed the envelope to him and stared him directly in the eyes, offering him a watery smile. "I will never forget you, Carlisle Cullen, and I wish you and your family only the best."

I turned and left, never glancing back.

. . .

**CPOV**

I sat in my personal study in my home, the letter resting atop the open envelope between my elbows, my hands folded in front of me and my lips pressed to my interlocking fingers as I stared down at the smooth wood of the desktop, my eyes subconsciously taking in the grain without ever really seeing it.

My eyes burned like fire from the thick poison that would never spill, and it was then that I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that there was a God. And he was cruel. He would not even allow me the relief of shedding my tears of anger and agony.

She was gone. She was gone, along with every opportunity that I had allowed to pass, and I had promised her that I would let her go... She had said 'it', but she had really meant herself. And had I known, dear God had I known, never would I have made such promises to her, never would I have let her walk away without knowing that she held my heart in return.

I cursed my own existence, damning myself to a deeper part of Hell that I was already bound for, for having held my silence, for having had played the role of a gentleman, allowing her to explore a relationship with someone who was not meant to have her, for having been so blind to not understand what she was telling me in those last few moments, for having promised to let her go... for having promised...

I snarled viciously and swept everything but the letter and envelope off my desk, before gripping the edges so hard that the areas crumbled to dust. It was not enough to assuage the rage I felt toward myself. I wanted to tear the entire house down with my bare hands. I wanted to destroy everything within my reach. But, no. I had promised her to let her go, to let her move on.

How could I have been so blind? How could I have been so foolish?

I let my eyes drift back to the letter, to her confession, to her goodbye, my eyes repeating over three phrases: _Even though it hurts, you understand the part that you have to play... I love you... Goodbye._

I let her go. I promised to let her go. But as I stared at the words, I knew that I had already broken my promise.

. . .

**ONE**

_2010_.

**BPOV**

Clichés, I firmly believed, were worse than epiphanies, mostly because epiphanies were revealed truths and clichés were lies hidden in cheesy attempts at philosophy: A penny saved is a penny earned. _No._ A penny saved just sits in the bottom of the cup holder in your car, getting sticky as crap is spilled on it over time. Honesty is the best policy. _Ha!_ Try answering a woman with PMS when they ask 'do these jeans make my butt look big'. Or having to reveal to a happily married vampire that you are in love with him. Time heals all wounds...

This was the biggest and cruelest lie of all. Time healed nothing. It only dulled the pain just enough to make the gaping hole that filled your heart and soul mildly tolerable. Time did not even have the decency to leave a scar-hell, it did not even have the decency to leave a scab! It left the edges of your marred spirit wide open and unable to reknit itself together. That was all time was good for.

Time was a killer, unfeeling and uncaring of who it destroyed in its wake. Time stole lives, taking the last breath from a person as they were granted the relief of departing this world, and it stole souls, leaving nothing more than bitter flesh behind. Time was a monster and everyone fell pray to its cold venom in the end.

But there was one good thing about time: it taught you how to act. It taught you how pass through itself without seeming like you did not belong. It taught you how to smile so convincingly, even if it never taught you how to make that smile gleam in your eyes. It taught you how to laugh, a light and carefree laugh that sounded as airy as the warm breeze it mimicked. But the most important lesson time could teach was that death was not the worst punishment the world had to offer.

Surviving was the worst punishment. Although, I had seriously considered making sure that I did not survive once or twice, but in the end, as with every other part of my life, I was too much of a coward to face that choice as well.

I knew full well how much of a coward I was. I hid from everything and everyone now, rarely socializing with my employees, holing myself away in my office and allowing my floor manager to act in my stead, playing the role of co-owner and paying her a hefty salary for it. It worked for me. It kept me from having to face the happiness that filled everyone else's lives, kept me from seeing the joy that was left in every world but my own... The thought alone that the one I loved would have all but forgotten about me now was enough to make me choke on a sob that I refused to let out.

He was out there somewhere, happy with his perfect vampiric existence, his perfect family, his perfect wife, and here I was with nothing but an almost-perfect business... And I was not even sure if it was the business that I wanted, because I was so full of unpleasantness that I really did not know what I wanted... I only had my business, because Angela Webber had sold her classy jazz lounge to me for a disturbingly low amount when she and Ben moved to Paris because of his job, knowing that I was lost, without any direction and with only despair to guide my life. I think she was hoping this would give my life some purpose, some drive, and on some level it did. It kept me off the streets at least.

And once in a blue moon, when I did venture out into the crowds that came to my space every night, the music was, for a moment, my release from the bleak unhappiness that seemed to filled every small corner of my heart and soul... Then the moment would end and reality would crash back into me with the final notes, and I would return to the solace of my empty world and to the comfort of whichever bottle was the closest.

Unfortunately, I would not have that luxury tonight, because - damn me and my supportiveness - I had agreed to go to a gala with one of my bartenders that was working his way through medical school... I had agreed on a whim, trying to be a supportive boss and showing that I cared for the educational advancement of my employees, before it hit me that I would be surrounded by doctors, surrounded by talk that would remind me of my loss.

After five years, I hated to think of the medical profession. It was his profession. It was him. And five years, it still hurt. After five years, time had not healed any wounds.

Yes, clichés were far worse than epiphanies.

. . .

**CPOV**

I sat in the leather chair and stared out the glass wall, so much like the one that made the back of _that_ house, the house that had once been my favored home, the once favored home that I loathed, the home where my spirit had withered to almost nothingness.

Beneath cover of the clouds, the sun was setting, the light that filled my private office growing dim with every passing second, not that it phased my senses in the slightest. I still could, unfortunately, see just as well in the dark as I could the brightest light. I could still, unfortunately, see the supposed beauty of the world... In years passed, such sights would have filled me with wonder and hope; but the past was exactly that: the past.

I hated every moment that passed. I hated every sight that filled it. I hated that I had been damned to exist through every single moment of it, and more importantly I had grown to hate that I was being kept here, forced to experience every agonizing second of a living world that I desperately wished to have no part of. Yes, I even hated the creature that was knocking on my door, disturbing my dark thoughts and prayers for a death that I would never been blessed with.

I growled at her to go away and, as usual, she did not heed my warning, despite knowing how this encounter would end. If these moments did not fill me with such anger and loathing, I would almost wish blessings on her cheerful soul, but I was filled with darkness and despair now, so all I could wish were terrible cruelties that should have been beyond me.

I heard her informing me of the gala, that the board of directors were all but demanding my presence, and I felt my control snap as I began destroying the room would stood in, snarling at her my utter lack of concern if I was fired from the hospital or not, roaring that all the money that I had was useless to me now. I did not care that my brutal words at her way of life brought venomous tears to her golden eyes, because this tiny pixie would never know the agony of losing her world.

I watched her flee, but my cold and bitter soul unable to care that I had broken her undead heart once again. I raged like a savage, shredding what was my twenty-second desk in five years, my nineteenth set of shelves, and turning hundreds of rare books to powder in moments in my feral fury, before slamming open the glass with such force that it, once again, shattered.

As I ran, I could hear Esme's heavy sigh at having to repair the house again, but I did not care at all; I was never able to bring myself to care... It was these creatures that I, for so long, had considered family that forced me to exist day after day, when they knew that my greatest wish was to part from this world.

Miles away from the house, I began obliterating everything around me, uprooting trees and leaving them as nothing but uncountable of splinters and particles of dust, turning several large boulders into nothing more than gravel in only moments. Nothing was safe from my black rage as I attempted to destroy my own loneliness and misery with my physical violence... It did not work. It never did.

I collapsed on one of the few uprooted and intact trees in exhaustion, a feat that should have been impossible for a vampire; yet the combination of physical destruction and my soul's complete lack of will to survive left me feeling weary and tired, and I would have given anything to be able to slip into an unconscious state, to sleep and to not feel the agony of my existence for even a few hours.

I heard her long before I saw her.

She was the exception to my hatred. While she had never lost a mate, but she understood the pain of having your soul destroyed, and she, unlike the rest, took as much sympathy on me as the others would allow her. I knew that she would destroy me if she could have done so; she had even attempted it several times to my most pained pleas, only to be stopped by the others. Yes, she was the only exception to my hatred. I could not hate the only creature on this Earth who cared as much as she did.

She appeared before me in a flash, sitting at my feet and waiting patiently to hear the words she heard every time I lost myself to my bitterness. She listened to me rant, cry, beg; she listened to me pour out the same misery that I bestowed upon her every time she came to me. She never showed anything but the utmost care and concern, despite hearing the same exact agonizing tirade once again.

I felt her hand on my thigh, felt her chin rest on my knee and felt her venom-blurred eyes on my face. And if we both could cry, we would. I would cry my misery and loneliness, and she would cry her sympathy and pain at seeing me so miserable. But we could not. It was our curse.

I mumbled to her how wrong I thought her sister was, how no amount of passing time could ever heal my broken, undead heart. I begged her for death, watching her face crumble as she whispered that she would if she could, and we both knew that it was the truth... It was also true that while she had not been to fond of my mate when she had been with Edward, she loved and respected the man that used to play the role of her father so well that she would have brought back the human girl to me herself if she had that ability.

When her sympathy and growing compassion had me settled enough, she urged me to go, not for the sake of keeping my position nor the sake of even keeping up appearances. We both knew that my dear heart had fled for what she thought was best, for what she thought was maintaining my happiness and the harmony within my family. To not pretend to live would have been a slap in the face to her memory.

And did I not love her so much, I would have hated her as well.

. . .

**TWO**

**BPOV**

Dancing. It was said to be a joyous expression of the soul. And I hated it.

I had seen several forms of dancing and too many routines in my life; and while I had seen dancers portray the greatest happiness, the deepest passion and even the most spine-chilling violence, I had yet to see a single dance that could convey the misery that my soul felt continuously. I doubted that there was any dance or dancer that could express my grief, not unless they stopped their actual routine to collapse upon the floor and weep openly the gut-clenching agony that dwelled in their soul.

I stood in a corner, silently watching the dancers on the floor, my escort somewhere out there amongst the crowd, making nice with the people who could advance his future career. I did not begrudge him that in the slightest, particularly since I was not the best of company tonight, or any night for that matter. I suppose the only reason he invited me was because I was not a simpering or giggling bimbo and that I could, when necessary, carry on an intelligent conversation. I could, in short, make him look good when he needed a female companion to introduce.

But at the present, he was occupied, dancing with the wife of some wealthy doctor, and that made my stomach churn, not out of jealousy, but out of pain at knowing that this was the sort of event that he would bring his own wife to. How excruciating it was to behold the swirls of colors, listen to the gaiety in the room, and see them both in every single face on the ballroom floor.

He haunted me. With every passing day, his image and his voice haunted me more and more, and I briefly wonder if staying and bearing the humiliation and awkwardness of being in love with a married man would have been better than this tragic dance my life had become.

Surely it would have been better to stay-I would have only seen one of him, and I could have avoided that one at all costs. Running, oh running had caused me to see him everywhere, in every stranger's face, in my mental wanderings, in my dreams, in my nightmares... It was like I could not escape him. Or the pain.

No, I could not escape either, but I could escape the happiness and the life that pulsed through the room. I could escape this joy, and I did. I fled. I fled as I always did, away from life, away from love. I grabbed a glass of champagne and I fled the ballroom to an empty veranda like the coward that I was, like the coward that I always would be.

The cool breeze had me shivering in moments, but I refused to don the coat that I carried as the slight chill allowed me to feel something other than the blackness that continued to eat away at my soul to this very day. It allowed me to feel life without the joy or the happiness tainting it.

I sank down onto a stone bench, staring out at the empty floral and water gardens and feeling nothing but cold, inside and out. I studied what should have been the bright colors of the flowers, but found them to be dull and ugly. I knew that the sounds of the fountains should have been clear and sharp, but all I heard was a hollow roar in my ears. I understand that the sights, sounds and smells of this world would always be lifeless now, and I could not find it in me to care or worry.

There was no reason.

I felt a single tear slip down my cheek and I did not bother to wipe it away. I did not have the energy to waste, not when I had to expend so much to breathe, to walk, to talk, to force a smile, to force myself to pass through this pointless life day after day... No, I suppose it was not pointless, not if he was somewhere happy in the life he led, not if he was with the ones-the one-he loved.

I knew that I should stop thinking about him, but yet I could not. I could not help but wonder at the same time if he ever thought of me. Of course, I knew that he could never truly forget me, because he was a vampire and they remembered the most minute details about everything; but I wondered if he _remembered_ me. Did I ever cross his mind randomly? If I did, I wondered what he would remember about me? Would he remember the times that I sat in his study, reading one of his rare books? Or would he remember the silly little girl and her teary goodbye? Would he smile sympathetically at my memory and think it a shame that I had deserted my family of a silly little crush?

"Do you ever think of me?" I whispered to the air.

"Yes."

. . .

**CPOV**

I was here. It was only at Rosalie's gentle behest that I was here though, and I was entirely unsure why my presence was required at all, as it was the same mindless chatter with the same mindless people. And, as with everyone of these functions, I stayed holed away in a corner of the back of the ballroom, wanting nothing more than to tear the pillars from their foundations and destroy the room and everyone in it.

God truly was cruel.

After so many centuries of giving and giving of myself, of trying to be better than the monster that was inside me, of the compassion that I had strived to show both the vampiric world and to this mortal world, my payment was the loss of the one I loved. That was how God repaid my devotion-to steal away my beloved and then force me to exist day after miserable day in the face of this... joy.

Was I so damned and evil in his eyes for allowing the horrors I had seen as a human, not stopping them while trying to obey his command to honor thy father, that I had not only first been denied receiving judgment before his throne, but that the one bliss that had shown in my life had to be removed from my presence?

If that was the way that God truly worked his supposed wondrous ways than it was no small stretch of the imagination that Lucifer had rebelled... I no longer cared if I was damned. I would gladly suffer the fires of Hell for all eternity over this miserable existence. I would rather burn forever in Hell than see God's face, for I wanted no part of a god that had only ever brought destruction and agony to my existence.

God was far crueler than I could have _ever_ imagined, and my punishment for my denouncement: I could smell her scent, knowing that this time it was real; and when I looked up, I saw the angel that I adored standing in the doorway with another man. And she was smiling... I had obeyed her promise and I had let her go, and she had moved on, just as she said wished to do.

_Why,_ my mind screamed to a god that I now knew was as much a monster as I was. _Why do you hate me so? And_ why _will you not allow me the relief of shedding a simple tear_?

I should have fled then. I should have run and left her be, but I could not. If this was to be the only time that I could again behold her beauty, smell and taste her exquisite scent in the air, then I would allow myself this brief indulgence, even if it killed me later when I had to watch her leave again, this time with yet another man who was not meant for her.

I watched with seething jealousy as some pathetic mortal male placed his arms around the gorgeous creature that was meant to be mine and mine alone. I watched with excruciating agony as she returned his smile... And it made me want to release the beast in my soul now more than ever, made me want to rip out the throats of everyone in the building but hers, made me want to throw her to the floor and claim her amidst the blood and carnage.

Instead I blinked at the sting of venom in my eyes and watched them part after the first dancing, watched her move away to stand alone, which pleased me slightly. I would rather her be standing alone, as far away from that male as possible. How surprised was I, and more than ecstatic, when he did not join her, choosing to speak with another physician that I did not know, offering to dance with his wife and leaving my Isabella alone.

She was alone and I could approach her... But no. No, I could not, because I had promised to let her move on. Yet as I watched her, the smile and happiness fading from her as if they were her blood being drained from her body, I knew that I had to again break a promise to her, for she looked as miserable as I.

Before I made the choice to move, she retrieved her coat then slipped away from the crowd and through the open door to the veranda, and I could not help but take pause and admire the grace that she moved with, the clumsiness of her youth replaced by a steady and seemingly confident stride of the beautiful woman she had obviously become.

I made my way as quickly as I could without drawing attention to myself to the expansive portico and stepped out into the night, moving silently along the brick wall until I could see her face, which was etched with lines of sadness and a burden that she should have never borne, and was obviously still bearing upon her shoulders.

Despite the lines of misery at the corners of her mouth and eyes, she was still the most beautiful sight that my eyes had ever beheld in all of my centuries. Her face was delicate, like a white rose spun from fresh snow, and her brown eyes were the color of espresso, deep wells that I could easily lose myself in. And her hair-hate God I might, but even I could not deny that this was truly one of his best creations-fell like waves of satiny chocolate, a tantalizing treat that I had not tasted in over three hundred years, but could remember just by a single touch of that gorgeous mane.

My frozen heart shattered when a single tear trickled down over one porcelain cheek as she gazed almost questioningly at something or someone that she could not see, her eyes filled with misery and traces of what looked like expectant rejection, and it occurred to me, as that salty drop slipped from her skin to the stone bench, that perhaps she had not really moved on as she had hoped she would.

When I heard her inquire to some non-existent person if they ever thought of her, I sent up a prayer to the uncaring god that I loathed that I was making the right choice, the choice I should have made five years ago, and simply whispered, "Yes."

. . .

**THREE**

**BPOV**

"Yes."

I shook my head as it suddenly occurred to me that my hallucinations were getting worse, and I had let them. I was not just seeing him in every person I met, I was hearing his voice coming from the damn thin air! I groaned, "I need another drink."

I bottomed-up the glass of champagne and gulped the entire thing down in under three seconds, the tickling warmth in my throat doing nothing to numb the pain. God forgive me for going further down this road, but I _really_ needed another drink; I was too weak to banish him from my mind and, apparently now, my ears alone. I needed something stronger to wash him away, even if only for a few moments... dear God, just a few moments.

I struggled with my waning energy, sluggishly pushing myself to my feet, miserable that I had actually accomplished what most people viewed as a simple feat. If I had not, I would have been forced to stay outside, would avoid the joy pulsing through the ballroom, would be spared the gut-wrenching site of seeing several dozen images of him on every person there. Of course, perhaps that was not as bad as hearing his voice. Seeing could be blamed on bad eyesight, some small similarities of another person... Hearing, oh hearing was something entirely different, quite possibly a sign of insanity.

I suddenly felt a twinge of sympathy for those gifted souls that could see and hear beyond the borders of our physical world; I would go crazy if I constantly had dead people talking to me... Then again, I was hearing the voice of a living dead man that I was hopelessly and irrevocably in love with, so what did that say about me?

I turned to make the painful trip back into the ballroom, my determination to drown out his existence for yet another brief moment in time greater than my desire to avoid the gaiety within, and I froze.

I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes.

Nope. He was still there.

I blinked several times, reached up and rubbed my closed lids viciously, then looked back.

Nope. It was still not helping.

This meant that I was either already trashed, which could not possibly true as this surprisingly was my first drink of the evening-I did need to drive after all-or that I need to get trashed and quickly, because normally his image would disappear after blinking and scrubbing my eyes; but to my horror, he was _still_ here.

And I was really beginning to get pissed off at the fact that this impostor was gazing at me the way he was, like he wanted to kiss my darkness and tears away while fucking me like a wild animal at the same time. How dare some stranger look at me in such a way while wearing _my_ true love's face! I briefly considered telling this person, who unknowingly seemed intent on looking like _him_, to go to hell, but really did not want to waste the energy... I had to get another drink.

I stomped as furiously as I could with my utter lack of energy toward the door, only to hear the bastard calling my name with _his_ voice, so I whirled around furiously, demanding loudly, "What do you want?"

He took a step backwards, his mirage-like topaz eyes clearly showing hurt. "Bella...?" he inquired almost timidly, as if he should not approach me at all, while confusion threaded its way through every note of his tenor voice. He even had perfected the slightest English accent that _he_ spoke with.

"Who are you?" I growled angrily, raising the champagne flute to my lips and wanting to scream in frustration when I remember that it was empty. "God damnit!" I cursed the crystal creation for not having what I needed and felt myself shaking with the overwhelming need for the numbing effects of that precious alcohol. I lifted my glare from the glass to the annoying doppelganger. "Excuse me, Sir, but I and my glass have unfinished business."

He eyed me warily, before plucking my lifeline from my hand, unaware that he was about to get a mouthful of ugly words spewed at him. Unfortunately, he cut me off. "Please, allow me. If you would wait here?"

He gestured to the bench that I had been sitting on, and I felt myself almost forgiving this stranger as he was offering to get me another glass of that liquid medication; but I was still furious at him for wearing that face and that luscious blond hair, that milky-pale skin and those lovely gold eyes. He should not be allowed to wear his face... Of course, it was not his fault; it was mine. I was still sober and I did not need to be.

As soon as he disappeared, I made my way back to the stone seat and plopped down heavily, wondering, not for the first time, why I could not let him go, why I was tormenting myself by holding on to every part of him in my mind. It was killing me.

Of course, I knew exactly why I tormented myself day after day. If I let him go completely, it meant that I had given up, that I had give up hope on ever seeing his face, his _real_ face, ever again. If I gave up every part of him that I so desperately clung to with my heart and soul, it meant that I had lost hope.

But as the peels of laughter and life floated from the ballroom out into the night, I realized that I had lost hope fives years ago when I walked away... Now I had no hope. I had no hope of ever seeing him again. I had no hope of being anything more than a silly little girl with a stupid little crush. I had no hope of being the woman he would love. I had no hope of being part of his world. I had no hope. The situation that I had created was hopeless... I was hopeless.

Without hope, there was no reason for life.

I would have to apologize to my escort tomorrow.

I rose to my feet and walked away.

. . .

**CPOV**

"Yes."

I watched her carefully, my hope waning when she shook her head, as though she were confused or had thought she was hearing something that was not there, and I was about to speak out when she lifted her full glass of champagne to her lips, muttering that she needed another drink, and watched as she downed the whole thing in a disturbingly fast manner.

I hurt for her as I watched her body fight with her mind as if it were a tug-of-war just to stand. It was almost physically painful to behold, but that was nothing in comparison to the misery in her eyes, that misery rapidly morphing into disbelief then into the darkest look of anger and loathing that I had ever seen.

For a moment, I sincerely believed that she was going to attack me, and while that hurt, it hurt far less than the knowledge that I had been wrong, that God once again revealed to me just how much he hated my damned existence.

It was apparent that I was not the one that she was thinking of, the one she was missing, my presence only a slap in the face to the one she had lost; and as she stomped away, I knew that I had to speak to her, even if it was only to apologize for the agony my sudden presence had caused her. When I called out to her, she spun with such force and speed that it would have had me, had I not known she was was human, questioning whether or not she was one of my kind. Fury blazed in her eyes as she snapped her enquiry of what I wanted, and I took a step back, physically pained by her tone and feeling that she was going to hurl her champagne flute at me at any given moment.

I cautiously repeated her name, first wounded and shocked then bewildered when she demanded to know who I was. It stung to think that she had forgotten me, but as she attempted to down the alcohol that was no longer in the glass, I realized the truth.

Comprehension only dawned on me when I focused my senses, picking up on a scent that I typically did not smell as I was generally desensitized to it: blood. But it was not just her blood that I could smell and taste in the air... Her blood alcohol concentration was very high and it was not just from this one drink. And if her blood had not given her away, the fact that she glared at the glass, as though it were some living creature who had brought her great offense for being empty, and cursed at it would have.

For a brief, sick second, I felt hope that perhaps it was living life without her mate that caused this, immediately flooded with self-loathing as I realized that if it was, if that were true... then I was the reason my beloved Bella was an alcoholic.

I also realized that if I did not do something soon, I was going to lose the opportunity to set things right, so I quickly plucked the glass from her, earning a glare full of rage, before I offered to get her other, which seemed to pacify her. She still looked a bit upset with me for reasons that I could not understand, given that she was apparently living in a state of inebriation and genuinely did not recognize me for who I was.

I was slightly pleased when I talked her into waiting outside for me. Of course, she would be furious when I returned with a cup of coffee instead, but I really needed her coherent to talk to her the way I wished. I had made it halfway across the room when I heard it, heard the clicking of her heels as she fled.

. . .

**FOUR**

**BPOV**

Miracles... I used to believe in miracles. There was a time when there was nothing in my world that was impossible. I once believed that I could do anything, be anyone, that I could take on the world and that love would conquer all.

Miracles were for suckers who believed in happy endings, that Prince Charming rode in on his white steed and saved the damsel in distress, and that everything worked itself out perfectly in the end. The truth of it all was that there was no such thing as a happy ending, that Prince Charming was actually a bronze-haired jackass who stopped vans from squashing pathetic teenage girls who fell in love with married men.

Okay... So perhaps I am a bit biased about that scenario, but the point still stands: miracles do not happen. Ever.

Now, had he actually been at the gala, I may have argued that there was a small sliver of a chance in Hell that miracles _might_ be possible, but I was sure that I would lose that argument, seeing as it would have been the most awkward and gut-wrenching experience of my life, since he was a happily married man with children, one of whom I had dated for a year... However, I did not have to worry about arguing with myself about the possibility of miracles, because I had not been entirely sober at the time and he was simply a creation of my own deluded mind.

No, miracles did not exist; of this, I was certain. There was only coincidences, and my coincidences were usually bad ones. Of course, I did not want to think about coincidences either, as they were what was making my entertainment late, which meant that I was going to be making a rare appearance on stage in about ten minutes.

I tried not to look at the clock too much as I worked on the books, a feat that I was certain that most of my employees were amazed that I could do when I obviously was not sober; the truth was that after almost five years of constant drinking, I could not function, much less survive, without a glass, and in some cases a bottle, in my hand at nearly all times. And I knew deep down that it was a cowardly way to live on my part, but it was what I did best: flee... flee from love, flee from reality, flee from pain, flee from life.

I hated myself for it; truly, I did. I had never meant to become the person that I was now, but I realized early on that the delicious warmth of alcohol eased the tragedy of my life. But what was only supposed to be a temporary relief had become a lifeline, as he had started slipping through the cracks of my mind-of course, I had to drink more to keep him away. Oh, but his memory was just as much a predator as he was, and he had found away even through that stupor. Now it had become so much that I had to drink to keep him on the edges of my sanity and to keep my own body alive. And I was beginning to fail at that.

I closed my eyes and rested my head against the back of my chair, wondering, not for the first time, if running had been the best choice. I wondered how awkward or painful my life would have been having to suffer my feelings in silence, day after day, seeing the one true beauty of my life being happy with another, with the person who was there first. Would I have been able to hide my emotions at all? If I could have, I wondered how long it would have been before the truth slipped through the cracks. And what would their family have thought if they had discovered the truth?

Well, I knew that Edward would have been furious, and it would have only given Rosalie just one more reason to hate me. Alice, sweet Alice, would probably have supported me know matter what, while Emmett would have teased me mercilessly, thinking it was so silly and fleeting human crush. Of course, Esme was so damned sweet and understanding that she would have probably offered to talk me through it. And Carlisle... Carlisle and his disgustingly genuine compassion and that near-sickening warm personality... I knew the look he would have given me. _That_ look. That sympathetic, non-judgemental, compassionate look.

God, I almost hated that look. Almost being the operative word. It was part of who he was and therefore I could never truly hate it. Or him.

I poured another unhealthy dose of SoCo into my glass and made my way calmly out of my little hole and onto the stage, vaguely registering that my well-paid floor manager was announcing that her "co-owner" was making a special appearance as I seated myself at the piano, the glass of bourbon going on top of the black baby grand.

I had to admit that even I was sometimes amazed that my fingers could dance over the keys in such a lousy state; perhaps it was because the sounds and the emotions of the music and words went deeper than the physical aspects of my body and straight into my soul. It was, after all, one of the few times that I found true release.

As I played, the words welling up from inside and spilling passed my lips, the cheers and hums of gaiety disappeared, and all that was left was my pain and longing, and I poured it out of my body like I poured my liquid life into my glass.

"_My eyes adored you... Though I never laid a hand on you, my eyes adored you..."_ I could see his face in my mind, the concern and sadness that dulled the lovely gold eyes as he worried about something that he thought existed but did not-he never could have known before then how I felt, because I had never known before then how I felt.

"_Like a million miles away from me, you couldn't see how I adored you... So close, so close and yet so far."_ He had held my hand as I cried, offering what comfort he could for a situation he could never understood; he could never have grasped the horror and the shame I felt for so desperately loving someone in his position, someone who was happy, married and had a family.

"_Funny, I seem to find that no matter how the years unwind... Still I reminisce about the one I miss and the love I left behind..."_ I could still see hesitation on his face when I made him promise that he would not open the letter until I was gone, would never look for me-he looked so broken and it was not really surprising, as I had become like another child to him.

Oh, that hurt. That hurt so much, knowing every fiber of my soul had awakened for him, a married man that I could never give my heart and soul to, a man who would never have seen me as anything more than a daughter... Dear God, it hurt so much.

I closed my eyes as I released the words and the feelings with soulful abandon, knowing that the one that I longed to hear them never would. "_All my life, I will remember how warm and tender we were way back then... Oh the feeling, sad regrets..."_

It was true. I told him that I would never forget him and it was horrifyingly true. Even when I had tried, when I had become the person that I was now, I could not banish him. To banish him completely from my mind, my heart, my soul... that would have taken a miracle.

. . .

**CPOV**

Only Rosalie could have convinced me into leaving the house and joining the beings that I had once considered family but now practically loathed into coming to a place like this.

While it was true that we had always engaged in rather human events and activities before to help blend in easier, never had these creatures been so determined to force me into a life that I did not wish to live. I was certain it was their form of torture, a punishment sent from God to torment me further, to taunt me with the joy that I would never regain.

I hated how they could be so happy, and I curse and questioned God as to why these immortal beings were afforded the bliss and peace that I had been denied for century after century, why they could be granted the greatest gift when my own reward was constant suffering, the biggest and darkest blow coming with the departure of the angel I loved, the goddess who would never know that her affections were returned a thousand fold.

I miserable surrounded by all the life and joy that I was forever refused, and I consciously made the effort to shut everything out, succeeding quite brilliantly for a grand total of half an hour, when the co-owner called out a name that was attempting to claw its way through my barriers and failing miserably. The only thing that pulled me from my purposeful stupor was a kick from Rosalie, who was pointing to an entrance.

She was dressed in a tight pair of jeans a flowing, silk peasant top of forest green, the coloring bringing out the tiny olive flecks in her mostly espresso eyes. Her chocolate curls were half pulled up, the other half left to trail down her back and brush against the back of that lovely milky column of her neck... Even though her doe-shaped eyes conveyed her misery, she was still beautiful, dark and haunted-looking, like an angel of death.

I winced as I saw her holding a large glass of what smelled like bourbon as she crossed the stage to sit behind the sleek piano, and despite how I adored her, I could not help but wonder how on Earth she was planning on playing in her highly intoxicated state.

But she did.

In all the time she spent with Edward, I had never known her to be musically inclined, but her fingers rolled over the ivory keys with nothing less than the grace of an artist, and the husky alto that came from her lips shocked me beyond words, the rich tones and the heartbreaking feelings poured into her song cutting through my marble flesh and straight to my heart... She in agony, because of me.

But maybe there was a God, because I was being granted yet one more chance. I was being granted a miracle.

…

**FIVE**

**BPOV**

Time... I firmly believed that it was a monster for all that it destroyed in life, but I never had realized until that moment that it was also the biggest pain in my drunk ass. It could never go by fast enough, could never bring my death to me quickly enough, could never end the damned evening soon enough, so that all the disgustingly joyful patrons would leave, leave me alone to play my pain in music.

Yes, it was one of those nights, a night when I actually wanted to remember, to mourn and rage with the clearest mind that I could, to bring myself as closely to sobriety as I could without it killing me both emotionally and physically. And yes, I was that far gone; at such a pathetically low point in my life, I was not sure that I wanted to be saved, when the only thing that could save me was completely out of my grasp and would be for all of eternity. What was the point of salvation from utter destruction when there was nothing to live for at the end of the journey?

I picked up the glass and eyed the bourbon in it.

Time had helped me do this to myself. Time had helped seduce me to my subversion, and once there, tormented me with its leisurely pace, dragging out my days and my nights into some twisted, demented opera of agony and darkness. Time blanketed me in its ugly shroud of sadness and staunchly refused to let me remove the heavy mantle. And the most cruel thing was that time would not allow me the relief of dying quickly of heartbreak and loneliness, determined to make me exist for decades more in my shame and misery.

I was not sure what time had made worse: my misery or my shame.

Even the slightest trace of a thought of him, and I was will with tragic loss, but the utmost humiliation at wanting a married man, desiring someone that was beyond my reach. It was disgusting and I was pathetic for having ever let those emotions surface... And yet for all my shame, I could not help but weep with agony and longing, feeling as though I would never be complete without his soul fully saturating every fiber of my being, without his presence surrounding and calming me, loving me.

I practically snarled to myself as I down half the glass in only three large swallows, the burning temporarily pulling my mind away from the sorry state my life had become, the pitiful feelings returning almost immediately, driving me to put away the SoCo and pull down my best bottle of whiskey.

It was true that they said to not mix alcohols, but at that point, so much saturated my blood that I was quite certain that it did not matter. And if it did, I still did not give two shits in a barrel.

Time... Enough time had finally passed. The club would be locked up and deserted, and I could go be miserable at the piano in peace. And I did, not stumbling once, something that most would have found to be miraculous; but when you lived in such a state of inebriation, your body adjusted and it did not affect you as much, which really sucked a pair, because it meant you had to drink more and more to try to take of the edge. And I had done this to myself with. I would continue to do this to myself, because I would not face reality of what time had done.

I sat my glass down onto of the piano and reached into the hidden compartment of the bench and pulled out my musical composition book, staring at the lines as they mocked me like always, instead deciding to play randomly, until I could figure out what words I wanted to write down.

My fingers dance surprisingly well over the keys as I sang out, _"There were times I left your heart in vain, times I turned and walked away..."_ Oh, I could see his beautiful face now, topaz eyes filled with venomous tears that he could not shed as the woman he loved as a daughter said goodbye.

And how tragically ironic was it that I had martyred myself to misery in the hopes of keeping a happy family from possibly being torn into, that I had foolishly prayed that I would forget them, forget him? _"I get to where I'm going, just to find... Won't be happy in this world if you're not by my side..."_ Yep. It was disgustingly ironic.

"_My heart told me to break away, now I'm out here far away... Wish that I could hold you in the night, then I'd wake up to a morning that is warm and bright,"_ I belted, knowing that this was an impossibility, as he was too far away, physically and emotionally, knowing that I would never share a tender embrace with him as I slept, would never see those heavenly eyes gaze at me when I woke.

Dear God I was pathetic!

The man had to be hundreds of miles away from me and had been for half a decade, and here I was still pining for him. And he was married, married with children; yes, they were adopted, but he had adored them all as though they were his own. And here I was longing to be the one he loved, like some sick and lonely puppy clinging to any shred of hope... It was sick. _I_ was sick.

Well since I was sick, I might as well put that sickness to some creative use.

I grabbed my pen and put it to an empty portion of the musical stave, quickly scratching some notes and lyrics down, before replacing the pen on the stand. I played a few simple chords and half-sang, half-mumble my mind's proposed lyrics from my tragic goodbye, _"Do you even know, can you even see, who you are exemplifies a miracle to me..."_

I doubted that, even to this day, he would believe my parting words to him, but they were true, as Carlisle Cullen was a living miracle: a potentially savage monster, tamed by the utmost compassion and respect for the world and life around him. Instead of giving into the darkest instincts that created him, he chose a different path, chose to help heal over death and destruction.

I quit playing and jotted down a few words, whispering them into the air, "Your strength and your restraint echo in each choice you make, taught by all that's light and all that's dark... You've seen the best, you've seen the worst-" I abruptly stopped writing as I thought about the words of my letter, immediately adding, "And even though it hurts, you understand the part that you have to play."

Well, that worked well; but as I stared at the music and words, my mind blanked on me and I found myself growing furious with my brain's inability to let my own words and feelings out. It was annoying. It was maddening!

Why... Why, oh why, would my mind refuse to let me purge him from my soul? Was it not enough that I had done the right thing by walking away from a married man, that I had left before I could have torn apart a good and wonderful family? Did I have to be tortured by his memory day after day, without any hope of expelling him from every fiber of my being?

I could feel the rage that always accompanied these nights building rapidly inside me and knew exactly how my body would react before I could stop myself, leaping to my feet with an angry snarl, the bench crashing loudly to the floor as I ripped pages from the book, before slinging it toward the back of the stage and grabbing my glass, downing the burning liquid before hurling it away from me with all my strength, vaguely hearing it shatter somewhere.

"God-fucking-damnit!" I cursed loudly, instantly realizing that I no longer had a glass, before I slammed the piano stand down and stomped to the bar, where I grabbed another glass and another bottle of whiskey... I would have to make sure the bartender restocked that brand tomorrow as I was confiscating this one permanently for my own private use.

I filled the glass half-full and knocked it back as quickly as I could, before immediately refilling it and taking a sip, glancing around the place that I loved to hate and hated to love. And that was when my eyes fell on him, causing me to blink, because I was certain that I had enough booze in my system to keep me from hallucinating. But then again, I could be wrong. I raised my glass to my eye level, deciding that we need to have a serious discussion, my drink and I, and I made sure to let it know that it was not doing its job, before taking another giant gulp and then glancing back to the blond-haired, golden-eyed ghost.

"Oh can't you just leave me the fuck alone?" I questioned it, exasperation building up inside of me. "I mean, I did the right thing," I griped angrily to it, stomping my way toward the spectre, bottle in one hand and glass in the other, and plopping gracelessly into a chair before it. _"I_ did the right thing... _I_ left. _I_ had enough respect and-and... concern for your family that I left... Isn't that good enough?" I downed the rest of my drink, poured some more and slammed the bottle down in front of it. "I mean, I-I was trying to make sure that your family, that your asshole son dragged me into by saving my damned life, stayed together. I mean, let's face it," I rambled senselessly, "Doucheward would not have been happy if he knew that I fell in love with Daddy."

Another downer, but this time, I forwent the glass and removed the portion spout, upending the bottle and taking a huge swallow. I pounded it back down to the tabletop, the tumbler shaking and sliding on the surface, and shook a finger at the phantom. "Do you know how fucking hard it has been to make you leave? ...And I know that if there is a Hell, I'm going to burn there for all eternity; but can't I get a little credit for leaving? I mean, it wasn't like I threw myself at you. I didn't try to bang you like I wanted to. I left! I left you and your family in peace," I babbled in my drunkenness at this hallucination. "I never tried to impose myself, never tried to do anything... I sacrificed my happiness, and apparently my sanity, trying to do the right thing, and this is my payment? To be tortured by you, day after day?"

I snatched up the bottle and took another swing, before jumping to my feet, stumbling for the first time in months. "Well, you know what? You can go fuck yourself, Carlisle Cullen! Go back to whatever self-destructive recesses of my mind you came from and leave me the fuck alone!"

. . .

**SIX**

**CPOV**

I could hear every single beat of her heart from where I sat in a corner with my family. I could hear every single time that she would lift a bottle. I could hear every single pour into her glass. I could hear every swallow that she took. I could hear every single tear that I doubted she realized that she was crying trace down her skin. And I would swear to anyone that might have asked that, despite it lying frozen in my chest, I could hear my own heart break with every single sound... I had let her run away from me, and in letting her go, I had done this to her. This was my fault, and it was only confirmed by the talk that I heard around me.

I was so lost in my own self-wallowing that I barely registered leaving what I assumed was her office, and I was anxious to see her again, but to my surprise, I heard her moving away, up a flight of stairs from the sounds of it. I was seriously considering getting up and following her, but as I pondered this idea, I heard a door open, close and lock, and the curiosity and worry that I felt stab through me was quickly eased, though barely, when I heard her moving around on the floor above us, abruptly realizing that she lived her. She was upstairs in her own apartment, which seemed to make sense, since it seemed she owned this place, which was another curiosity to me... The Isabella I remembered was not exactly the club-owning type, so had she become an alcoholic after purchasing this facility, or did she buy the club to sate her disease?

I listened very carefully as she left her small home and came down the stair. While it was true that alcoholics in her condition tended to function quite normally in such a chronic state of inebriation, I was still quite fretful. I had only now found her; I did not need her falling down the stairs and breaking her neck. I calmed slightly when she was safe and sound in her office-well, as safe and sound as she _could_ be in her office-and attentively monitored her breathing and heart rate from where I was. In spite of her drunken state, she seemed as though she were in relatively good health, something that I was grateful for; however, if I could not convince her that I was real and, more importantly, that I was neither married nor mated, I doubt that she would remain in such a positive shape of wellness for many more years... At the present, she was young and her body could more easily handle the torture being inflicted upon it, but after five or ten years more, her body would rapidly deteriorate.

No. I would not let that happen, even if I had to do to her what I had done to the others and take the choice away from her. Although, there was a difference: the others had been within hours of their deaths, unable to voice their opinion on the subject of being changed, and despite her less-than-thriving state, she was still somewhat lucid and would be able to make up her own mind... It was in that moment that I realized how truly selfish a creature I was, because I knew that there was no way, come Hell or high water, that I would let her escape again nor would I allow her to destroy herself.

The other immortals that I resided with, save one, did not feel that remaining behind was the wisest decision, but a rather low and cutting remark about mistakes and true family had them slinking away, hurt written across their faces, not that I cared any longer, as the misery of the last five years of my life had only been deepened by their actions. I wanted to rage at them for their seeming obliviousness, for not grasping that there would never be a 'perfect' time to approach Isabella while she was in such a state, that she would forever be in that state if action were not taken, and so with their disapproval in my ears, I stayed, blending into the dark shadows and hiding until the place was locked up, until the only two souls in the building were my own and Isabella's.

I sat down in the blackness of night, wondering how I should approach her. Of course, I could have easily gone to her office, but I did not want to give the poor girl a heart attack. God seemed kind enough to grant me a small measure of grace, for not long after those thoughts, she made her way, looking so much like a fallen angel, to the piano and surprised me by pulling out a musical composition book, though it was almost immediately clear that she was struggling with her thoughts. Her choice to sing 'Ellie, My Love' was a bit shocking, more so was the way she sang it, the low and husky tone filled with a mix of self-loathing and such longing that I winced at the sharpness of it as it lanced through me to my very core.

Startlingly, she stopped halfway through the song, her alcohol-soaked brain having seemed to have drifted to a new and more painful topic. Her face was wrinkled in disgust, and there was no doubt in my mind that she was aiming it at herself; but as quickly as it came, it was gone, and she deftly picked up a pen-should she not have been using a pencil?-and began scratching away in the composition book, before replacing it and gently finger a few chords, crooning out, _"Do you even know, can you even see, who you are exemplifies a miracle to me..._"

I was staggered as I heard the words that she had said before she walked out of my office and out of my life five years ago. I could not believe that she was composing her goodbye into a song, could not believe that her departure had so damaged her that she not only carried my memory in her mind, but in her soul and in her heart so deeply, so incredibly deeply that it seemed that she might die without the pain and misery to carry her through.

I heard scratching again, heard her whisper "Your strength and your restraint echo in each choice you make, taught by all that's light and all that's dark... You've seen the best, you've seen the worst and even though it hurts, you understand the part that you have to play...", and recognized them as the words from her letter-dear God above, she truly was writing her goodbye! She was more than lonely, more than miserable. She was broken. She was broken because I refused to find her. She was broken because of me.

I watched as she struggled to write more, her mind was obviously refusing to give her the answers that she was searching for, and I could see the fury swiftly building within her, bubbling higher and higher with every passing moment, rage glowing in her dark eyes as she jumped to her feet and as books and papers and, eventually, her glass went flying in different directions across the room. And the moment she let go of her tumbler, she recognized her mistake and began cursing as she practically stomped toward the bar to retrieve another glass and bottle of whiskey.

After taking a sip, she began looking around and when her eyes fell on me, she cursed again then stormed over to me, ranting the entire time.

And I let her. I let her vent her anger and her hurt. Until she hopped to her feet and informed me that I could go 'fuck myself' and that I should 'leave her the fuck alone'.

That was when I snapped.

. . .

**SEVEN**

**CPOV**

If the situation were not so pathetic, I probably would have chuckled at the way her hand opened and closed in thin air as she tried to figure out just where the bottle of alcohol went. She even glanced down at her hand to check and turned, raising her hand to stare at where the bottle had previously been. I heard her mumbled to herself about leaving it on the table and watched as she walked by me, pretending that I did not exist... Although, in her mind, I really did not exist... She stopped at the table then glanced back at the bar, muttering that she 'could have sworn that she got another bottle', and since I knew that she would just try yet a third bottle of booze, I supplied for her, "You did. I have it."

She stared at me for a several moments before stomping toward me. If she thought that she was actually taking the alcohol away from me, she was sadly mistaken. For some reason, I let her take it and patiently watched as she showed me her back and took six steps forward and froze. It took less than a second for the bottle to hit the ground, but over a minute and a half for her to face me, and when she did, I almost regretted being her. The pain on her face was so great that had I not previously known it was her, I would not have recognized this woman as Bella.

She swallowed. "You promised that you wouldn't come looking for me."

I shoved my hands into my pockets and leaned against the nearest table. "Bella, if I had actually been looking for you, do you really think it would have taken me five years to do so?"

Her lips twitched and I knew that it was involuntary. "Why are you here?"

I could have lied to her. I could have pretended that I misunderstood her, and told her that the family thought New York was a good place to be. But she deserved better than that, so I gave her the truth. "After seeing you at the gala, I had to speak with you."

She rolled her eyes and sighed. "Carlisle, I really don't need a lecture from you about what I am doing is bad for me, that it will kill me... I know that already. It's kind of the point."

I growled low in my throat, the instinctive animal anger coming more naturally than it had before her entrance into and departure from my world. "If you think, even for a moment, Isabella Swan that I am going to let you drink yourself into a oblivion-"

She snorted and turned her back to me, walking toward the bar. "Go back to your perfect family, Carlisle, and leave me-"

Her back hit the bar hard and I moved her, slamming my fist down beside her, making her jump as the wood splintered right next to her small frame. "You stupid little girl," I snarled furiously down at her, my accent thicker than ever and venom trickling from the corners of my mouth; both were signs of my extreme rage that she seemed to subconsciously want to provoke. "I have no family anymore. I live with creatures more cruel than God himself, creatures that have forced me to exist in this miserable farce of a life. And all the while, all I have begged for is death." I lowered my face to hers, not caring that drops of my venoms covered her pale skin as I vented my frustration to her. "I freely admit, with no small amount of shame, that the three greatest mistakes of my life were not fighting Edward for you and telling you what you are to me, and not fighting to keep you when you fled... But I will be _damned_ if I let you turn your back on me one more time and walk away, whether it be to walk out of my life or across this goddamn room."

With that, I grabbed and tossed her over my shoulder, much to her loud and shrieking ire, and when I dumped her unceremoniously onto her sofa, she shouted words at me that I was certain she did not know before she left Forks, Washington. The moment the words 'how dare' passed her lips, I slammed my palm against the counter, listening to it crack. _"Shut up!"_ To my astonishment, she did. Although, it was not for a lack of trying, if her opening and closing mouth were any indication. It was written all over her face: she wanted to curse at me, scream at me, probably throw something at me, but her alcohol-soaked brain was to befuddled to let her do anything but gape at me.

While she stared, I filled a glass with water and presented it to her with the simple command of "Drink."

She did, but as she took large swallows, her eyes stayed focused on a spot behind me, a spot where she kept her large supply of alcohol. When she was finished, I filled the glass again, this time sitting beside her as she drank the clear fluid and stared at her liquor cabinet. "I need a drink," she muttered miserably, sitting perfectly still and not making an effort to move. She put the glass down and buried her face in her hands, and whispered beneath her breath the necessity of another drink, and all I could do was murmur 'I know'.

She reached behind her and pulled the afghan from the back of the couch, wrapping herself up in and curling up against the armrest. She laughed bitterly. "Now I have an idea of how Jasper feels." When I quietly informed her that she was not the only one, the soft and accepting look in her eyes practically took my breath away. "I'm sorry."

"Do not be," I returned. "If even the mightiest of angels can fall from God's grace, then it is no surprise to myself that in that same way also can I."

"Then what must you think of the little human."

Leave it to Bella to hear that I have taken a human life, have feasted upon the blood of her own kind, and yet she worries what I will think of her alcohol intake. "Isabella, I may be immortal, but I am part man and part beast," I explained, "and I am in not insusceptible to any temptation. And only in the eyes of mortals is any fall deemed more or less significant than another. A fall from grace is just that, Isabella. No matter how far or how hard that fall is, it is still a fall."

I watched her bite her lip and the nervousness cross her face as she timidly asked, "And it is not your greatest mistakes?"

"No," I replied firmly and sincerely. "I do confess that it is one of my greatest, but it is not my greatest." Most people would have been revolted, infuriated, by my answer, but not Isabella. No, she simply nodded and accepted my words without fear or aversion. Still, I felt the need to explain further. "Today this day, I carry remorse for my lack of control. My actions will be with me for the rest of my days. But if every sinner were to continually dwell on their wrong-doings, there would be no going forward on whatever path God has set before them."

I watched as she picked up the glass of water and finished it in two gulps, and I considered stopping her when she went to the liquor cabinet, pulling out a bottle that I knew to be illegal. I watched as she poured the glass half full and was surprised when she simply sat it on the small table in front of us. She grabbed her blanket and curled herself against my side, and I was more than happy to feel her warmth, but still a bit confused as to her actions. And as if sensing my perplexity, she explained, "That is what you are faced with every day." _Ah..._ "You see it. You smell it. You touch it. You need it. But yet you resist." I could hear the tears sliding down her cheeks. "I need it," she moaned miserably, her body shaking with sobs that I knew would soon be something else.

I pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head. "I know."

"This is going to kill me, isn't it?"

I sighed.

Drying out was not an easy process, especially not for someone in such a state as she was in. She was so far gone that she would most certainly fall prey to the DTs, which were indeed fatal if not treated properly. However, I had the time, the money and the skills to keep her as stable as I possibly could, and she could remain as comfortable as possible in the privacy of my coven's home. "It is a possibility, but I can assure you that I will do everything in my power to keep that from being the outcome. If it comes to it, I could change you... If that is what you still wish." When she shook her head no, I felt my undead heart breaking into again. At least until she spoke.

"A year... I believe that's what Edward said to me," I said quietly. "That the vampire's first year is the most difficult. I have to live at least a year with this. If not for anyone else than at least for myse-"

She shuddered and whimpered, and I knew that it would drive her mad not to reach down and grab that glass. However, I did not tighten my grip on her. She had to resist this on her own, and if she wished to, I would support her. If she did not, I would do the truly selfish thing and force her to change, so she could not... Oh yes, I was indeed that selfish. Not in the past perhaps, but the saying was true: Nothing endures but change.

…

**EIGHT**

**BPOV**

Pain... Everyone has their threshold, both the physical and emotional. Some people can handle more pain than others. Some people can barely tolerate the afflictions bestowed upon a body, but can carry the weight of the world upon their souls. Some people can tolerate more physical pain, but easily to the demons of the mind. Some people can bear both. Some people can crumble beneath both.

I am that one. I am the one to hold both so close to myself, to wrap them both around my drained body and spirit like a shroud. It is a dark shroud to be sure, but the vile gloom of pain is almost a comfort to me, because we were already friends, the darkness and I. Oh yes, misery had touched my body like shards of glass on those broken nights, and it had filled my soul so fully for so long that happiness and joy were foreign to me, leaving a wretched 'flavor' in my heart when tasted, even if briefly. And after so long, I simply wished to let go.

But he would not let me. I had requested a year and that immortal demon that haunted my mind for so many years now tormented me here, refused to show me mercy and let me die.

I hurled a vase at him, snarling angrily when I realized two things: I just broke one of Esme's expensive antiques and his body was as hard as marble. Throwing stuff at him did absolutely nothing, because there was nothing that I could throw nor any speed or strength with which I could throw it at that would hurt him. Hell, if I had a gun, I could empty multiple rounds at him and it would only crack the surface. And then that surface would heal almost instantly. The damned immortal son of a bitch.

And I made sure to let him hear all of these little internal-come-external diatribes too. If this pain in the ass was going to torture me by drying me out then I was going to make damn sure that he was as miserable as I was. He deserved it, because this was Hell, and I sure as hell was not going to experience Hell alone. I refused. I did not care if it originally began as a Hell of my own making or not. This exact circumstance was his fault after all, because he refused to leave me to my miserable existence. And he should have. He should have left me to rot alone, because I deserved it after all... I did. I created my nightmarish life with my own foolish and needless heartbreak. I had made myself bitter and cold, and in the bitter cold, I needed to remain.

"I'm sorry" were the only words that I could whisper as the blinding rage faded into the physical and emotional tremors of pain.

And I hated it. I hated it all. I hated that I had become this. I hated that, to heal, I had to be this disgusting creature and walk through the lowest paths of my life over and over again. I hated my flesh for having given into some of the darkest temptations. I hated my body for having fallen prey to a weakness that I should have never born. I hated my mind for holding me captive to these cruel needs, for imprisoning me with a desire that I truly did not want. I hated the loss of control over both. I hated the humiliation. And I wanted so much to hate his patience and kindness, his ability to love, even when I was this. But I could not. I could hate myself, but I could never hate him. And when I asked him if he hated me, hated me for what I had become, hated me for being what this disease was making me be as it was forced from my body.

He said no.

He said he loves me.

And he stayed. He stayed as I grew increasingly agitated. He held me to him as the nervous and shaky feelings over to me, rocking me gently to try to calm me. He held my hairs as I vomited up everything that was in my stomach. He rocked me again when I sobbed in pain and humiliation. He watched movies and talked with me when insomnia kept me from sleep, though we both agreed this was a good thing, as the little sleep I did get was filled with nightmares. Yes, he stayed. Even now as my mood swings were growing worse, as the symptoms slowly moved away from simple withdrawal, as they crept steadily toward the physically devastating and potentially fatal delirium tremens.

I had asked him if I was going to die. He said no, but I think he was thinking yes. If I started going downhill suddenly, no amount of venom in the world could save me. It took an average of three days for venom to change a human, but even if it took less than that, a heart attack could kill me instantly. I doubted his venom could act that fast. So if death were to come upon me in this disease, the truth was that there was hardly anything that he could do to save me. My heart would have stopped before his poisonous kiss could save my life. Yet somehow, at the same time, I could not see him relinquishing me to my death. He would not allow. He would fight Death with his bare hands and teeth, I was certain, and I was equally certain that he would somehow win the battle.

I shook my head, my brain growing foggy, and felt tears slipping down my cheeks. "Ca... Carlisle..." My vision was incredibly cloudy and I could barely feel him touching my face, hear him calling my name. "I'mmm... It's... ha-happen...ing... is...n't?" I was losing coherence and that was not good. I was succumbing to the severe lethargy and confusion, symptoms that I had passed into the dreaded DTs. "Don't... want... to-to... die."

I could have sworn that I heard my name paired with the words 'I love you', but by the time that I had gained just enough mental focus to decide if I really had or not, my body betrayed me.

. . .

**THE FINAL CHAPTER**

_2011_

**BPOV**

I was alive. One whole year after losing control of my body to the DTs, a humiliating experience if there ever was one, I was alive. Alive. Clean. Sober. The not completely whole. Not yet anyway. I knew that I could never be completely whole until I had finished this life and joined my mate in immortality. No, for now I was still broken. Mended, but broken. If you looked closely enough, you could still see the cracks where Carlisle had pieced my back together, but I was like a porcelain doll-from a distance, I could appear to be a complete piece, but when you got closer, you could see the seams that held me together.

He was those seams. Well, he was the majority of those seams. Rosalie had helped weld together a few of the cracks, and I had grown to love her like a sister. And sadly, she was the only one, aside from Carlisle, obviously, that I felt that way about. Do not misunderstand, I am very grateful that my family had kept my mate alive, because he would not have found me otherwise; however, that still did not stop me from being bitter about the fact that they had let him live on so in pain, because no one deserved the kind of torture that he went through, that I put him through, especially when they could feel sorrow and agony to such an extreme. He had gone against his highest principle and had killed a human before finding me, and they should have realized then that his desire to die should have, at that time, been honored. But they had not taken his life and I was glad they did not. It was the only thing that made accepting them back into my life tolerable.

Yes, it was horrible, twisted and selfish logic. I know that. We both knew that. But he agreed with me: Death would have been better for him in the past, because how were we to know that we would find each other again? Time and a broken soul could mess with one's thoughts. It could make one think about oxymorons like that-being angry that they had not given him peace, but grateful at the same time, particularly when it was my fault in the first place.

No. It was not just my fault. It was our fault. He knew that he was as much to blame as I. Yes, he had agreed to let me go, but there was no magic binding his soul to keep him from me. He had made that choice on his own, just as I had made my choice to go. Just as he had made his choice to stay with me once he had found me. Just as I had made my choice to put down the last glass.

I closed my eyes as I stood on the balcony, facing the woods. I remembered that night well. I remembered screaming in pain and terror. I remembered clawing at my own flesh, trying to rid myself of the imagined roaches under my skin. I remembered calling him every name under the sun and accusing him of such horrible atrocities that Rose had come in and scared me half to death. I remembered seeing his face one last time before blackness overtook me. I remembered waking up to the disgusting smells of urine and feces. I remembered the humiliation of having lost control of my body. I remembered crying in shame, while the male stroked my hair and tried to calm me as Rosalie took the time to clean and redress me. And I remembered it being an endless cycle that seemed to last for eternity instead of just a few simple days.

Of course, those days were not simple at all. They were filled with I.V. fluids to keep me hydrated, drugs to help ease the symptoms, and a constant stream of nausea, sweating, crying. It was filled with me screaming at Carlisle and Rosalie putting me in my place for screaming at Carlisle... Ultimately, it was as humbling as it was humiliating. And both were agonizing lessons of my own making, lessons that I was being forced to learn over and over again, until they were finally gone with the last tremors.

I glanced down at the glass that sat on the thick wooden railing beside me. It was untouched, of course. I had not taken a drink since that night, but it was a little ritual of mine, a ritual that caused the biggest fight between my mate and I that eventually ended in an angry sexual coupling.

He had to go through life, day after day, surrounded by blood, and that was just the humans that walked past him every day; that did not include the amount of spilled blood as he continued to work as a surgeon. I was amazed that he had managed to rein his instincts back and continue with his legendary control, but somehow he did. I knew it was painful for him, now that he had finally had a taste of human blood, but he refused to let him overtake him, and it was that reason that I had begun the little ritual that he dreaded.

Every morning when I awoke, the very first thing that I would do was get a new glass. I filled it halfway with Absinthe. I carried it with me everywhere, but refused to touch it, not that he or his family would let me if I tried. Yes, I had it with me at all times. I took it to the bathroom while I got ready in the mornings. I carried it with me to breakfast. I had it with me when I went downstairs to work. I kept it beside me when I went out into the crowds. It stayed with me at all times. There were even times, like the times that I was in my office, that I would stare at it, talk to it even, though not in the sense that I expected a conversation out of it. No, it was more like I pondered aloud about how I could have possibly let it gain so much control over me... I thought it was strangely appropriate. After all, my mate had to be so close to his personal demons day in and day out. It was fitting. It was fair.

Though, he almost won the battle one night when we argued about it. Everything came out that night. All the hurt and anger just spilled forth as the dam broke. We screamed and shouted. I called him a coward for having never admitted his feelings in the first place and when he tried to counter it with the fact that I was underage, I loudly protested that he still could have admitted it without having acted on any physical desire, if his restraint were so legendary, and very rudely pointed out that if his balls had not turned blue and fallen off in the past three hundred years, that he could have wait one more year to 'get in my pants'. He was less than impressed by this obnoxious tactic and pointed out that if I had acted like a mature adult that things probably would have gone far more smoothly. Then to drive home his point, he had bluntly rephrased it by saying that if I had not insisted on acting like a selfish bitch that neither of us would have gone through the hell that we had gone and we were going through.

That beginning of that end had not started well, as I raised my hand to slap him. Things only got worse, or better, depending on your view of it, from there as he had slammed me into a wall and proceeded to fuck the breath out of me. It was hard, angry sex that said everything that our mouths were unable to without causing considerable damage. He had held my hips so firmly that I could not move and bruises had begun to form under his hands as he rammed his cock up into my tight pussy, pounding me so savagely that I screamed myself hoarse from the sheer agonizing pleasure of it. His snarls and grunts had echoed through the room as his hips jack-hammered against mine, and I came with tears streaming down my cheeks as he sank his teeth into my throat.

Afterwards, we had rest together in the floor, apologizing and professing our love, and that had been when we started to heal. Everything was let go and we could move forward with each other, which was why we were still together today, why he was standing quietly beside me as I reminisced within my own mind.

I opened my eyes and glanced at him then back at the glass, which I plucked up in my hands and held in front of me. I swirled it then sniffed the contents. "I still need it, you know." He knew. Of course, he knew. He lived it, day in and day out, just like I did. "I don't want it. I don't want to taste it. I know it will taste revolving. But it's... it's like it's still in my blood. Every fiber of my being wants me to down it, to just slam it back and hope it will ease something that's no longer there. Why?"

I knew why. It was what addiction did. It was unpleasant and never ending. Till the day that I died, I would crave it.

I left the glass on the railing, leaving my old life behind, and waltzed into our bedroom in the Cullen home and pulled out a notebook-my music notebook to be specific. This was something that Carlisle knew existed, but respected my request to never look at it. "I finished," I said solemnly as I carefully tore the sheets of notes and lyrics out. I held it out to him. "I started it the day that I left. Well, you know that. You heard the night when I had my melt down." I refused to recognize it as the night that he threw me over his shoulder and forced my sobriety on me, since it seemed more embarrassing to me that way. I passed him the sheet music and my lyrics. "I lost count of how many times I changed it. I thought you should see this before... tonight."

Yes, I would be broken, not whole. I would crave my destruction every day until I died. I would die tonight. Tomorrow, I would wake up with a new life, a new hope.

Because epiphanies were wondrous things that could bring both pain or enlightenment, and sometimes both. Because clichés were not lies hidden in cheesy truths-that was just one's bitter perception of them, a perception that had changed over the past year for me. Because dancing was a joyous expression of the soul and I had grown to love the dance my life had become. Because miracles were always possible and love could conquer all, even if there were a few bumps in the road along the way to the end of the journey. Because pain was a part of life and we would never appreciate the happiness of it without that pain. Because the moment time destroyed life, it gave birth to a new one.

Time did not always leave open the wounds of one's soul, did not always breathe the darkness of shame and misery into one as it had me for so long. Sometimes, in a peaceful and beautiful moment, you realized that time did heal all wounds, even if it left a few scars, and breathed into the depths of one's soul hope.

.

**A/N: **I now have an AroBella story up called **Forsaken** **Wild**, along with **Virgin Madam** and **Washington**.


End file.
